Foram encontradas 233 questões.
world’s most powerful figures: Yasser Arafat, Golda Meir, Indira Ghandi, Haile Selassie, Deng Xiaoping. Henry Kissinger, who later wrote that his 1972 interview with her was “the single most disastrous conversation I have ever had with any member of the press,” said that he had been flattered into granting it by the company he’d be keeping as part of Fallaci’s “journalistic pantheon.” It was more like a collection of pelts: Fallaci never left her subjects unskinned.
Her manner of interviewing was deliberately unsettling: she approached each encounter with studied aggressiveness, made frequent nods to European existentialism (she often disarmed her subjects with bald questions about death, God, and pity), and displayed a sinuous, crafty intelligence. It didn’t hurt that she was petite and beautiful, with perfect cheekbones, straight, smooth hair that she wore parted in the middle or in pigtails; melancholy blue-grey eyes, set off by eyeliner; a cigarette-cured voice; and an adorable Italian accent. During the Vietnam War, she was sometimes photographed in fatigues and a helmet; her rucksack bore handwritten instructions to return her body to the Italian Ambassador “if K.I.A.” In these images she looked slight and vulnerable as a child. Her essential toughness never stopped taking people — men, especially — by surprise.
Fallaci’s journalism was infused with a “mythic sense of political evil”, an almost adolescent aversion to power, which suited the temperament of the times. “Whether”, she would say, “it comes from a despotic sovereign or an elected president, from a murderous general or a beloved leader, I see power as an inhuman and hateful phenomenon… I have always looked on disobedience towards the oppressive as the only way to use the miracle of having been born.” In her interview with Kissinger, she told him that he had become known as “Nixon’s mental wet nurse,” and lured him into boasting that Americans admired him because he “always acted alone” — like “the cowboy who leads the wagon train by riding ahead alone on his horse, the cowboy who rides all alone into the town.” Political cartoonists mercilessly lampooned this remark, and, according to Kissinger’s memoirs, the quote soured his relations with Nixon (Kissinger claimed that she had taken his words out of context). But the most remarkable moment in the interview came when Fallaci bluntly asked him, about Vietnam, “Don’t you find, Dr. Kissinger, that it’s been a useless war?”, and he began his reply with the words, “On this, I can agree.”
One of the basic criteria Fallaci adopted to handpick her interviewees was gender-based: half of them had to be necessarily women politicians.
Provas
A Encíclica admitia a luta de classes, pois considerava iníqua a propriedade privada.
Provas
Texto – para a questão
Pernambucano em Málaga
A cana doce de Málaga
dá domada, em cão ou gata:
deixam-na perto, sem medo,
quase vai dentro das casas.
É cana que nunca morde,
nem quando vê-se atacada:
não leva pulgas no pelo
nem, entre folhas, navalha.
A cana doce de Málaga
dá escorrida e cabisbaixa:
naquele porte enfezado
de crianças abandonadas.
As folhas dela já nascem
murchas de cor, como a palha:
ou a farda murcha dos órfãos,
desde novas, desbotadas.
A cana doce de Málaga
não é mar, embora em praias,
dá sempre em pequenas poças,
restos de uma onda recuada.
Em poças, não tem do mar
a pulsação dele, nata:
sim, o torpor surdo e lasso
que se vê na água estagnada.
A cana doce de Málaga
dá dócil, disciplinada:
dá em fundos de quintal
e podia dar em jarras.
Falta-lhe é a força da nossa,
criada solta em ruas, praças:
solta, à vontade do corpo,
nas praças das grandes várzeas.
João Cabral de Melo Neto. A educação pela pedra e outros poemas. Rio de Janeiro: Objetiva, 2008, p. 149-50.
Com relação ao poema, julgue C ou E.
O ufanismo expresso na última estrofe é marca do estilo de época a que pertence o poema.
Provas
Texto– para a questão
As turmas povoadoras que para lá [Acre] seguiam deparavam com um estado social que ainda mais lhes engravecia a instabilidade e a fraqueza. Aguardava-as, e ainda as aguarda, a mais imperfeita organização do trabalho que ainda engenhou o egoísmo humano.
Repitamos: o sertanejo emigrante realiza, ali, uma anomalia sobre a qual nunca é demasiado insistir: é o homem que trabalha para escravizar-se. Ele efetua, à sua custa e de todo em todo desamparado, uma viagem difícil, em que os adiantamentos feitos pelos contratadores insaciáveis, inçados de parcelas fantásticas e de preços inauditos, o transformam as mais das vezes em devedor para sempre insolvente.
A sua atividade, desde o primeiro golpe de machadinha, constringe-se para logo num círculo vicioso inaturável: o debater-se exaustivo para saldar uma dívida que se avoluma, ameaçadoramente, acompanhando-lhe os esforços e as fadigas para saldá-la.
E vê-se completamente só na faina dolorosa. A exploração da seringa, neste ponto pior que a do caucho, impõe o isolamento. Há um laivo siberiano naquele trabalho. Dostoiévski sombrearia as suas páginas mais lúgubres com esta tortura: a do homem constrangido a calcar durante a vida inteira a mesma “estrada”, de que ele é o único transeunte, trilha obscurecida, estreitíssima e circulante, ao mesmo ponto de partida. Nesta empresa de Sísifo a rolar em vez de um bloco o seu próprio corpo — partindo, chegando e partindo — nas voltas constritoras de um círculo demoníaco, no seu eterno giro de encarcerado numa prisão sem muros, agravada por um ofício rudimentar que ele aprende em uma hora para exercê-lo toda a vida, automaticamente, por simples movimentos reflexos — se não o enrija uma sólida estrutura moral, vão-se-lhe, com a inteligência atrofiada, todas as esperanças, e as ilusões ingênuas, e a tonificante alacridade que o arrebataram àquele lance, à ventura, em busca da fortuna.
Euclides da Cunha, 1866-1909. Um clima caluniado (fragmento). In: Um paraíso perdido: reunião de ensaios amazônicos. Seleção e coordenação de Hildon Rocha. Petrópolis: Vozes, Brasília, INL (coleção Dimensões do Brasil, v.1), 1976, p. 131-2 (com adaptações).
Com referência às ideias e às estruturas linguísticas do texto, assinale a opção correta.
Provas
world’s most powerful figures: Yasser Arafat, Golda Meir, Indira Ghandi, Haile Selassie, Deng Xiaoping. Henry Kissinger, who later wrote that his 1972 interview with her was “the single most disastrous conversation I have ever had with any member of the press,” said that he had been flattered into granting it by the company he’d be keeping as part of Fallaci’s “journalistic pantheon.” It was more like a collection of pelts: Fallaci never left her subjects unskinned.
Her manner of interviewing was deliberately unsettling: she approached each encounter with studied aggressiveness, made frequent nods to European existentialism (she often disarmed her subjects with bald questions about death, God, and pity), and displayed a sinuous, crafty intelligence. It didn’t hurt that she was petite and beautiful, with perfect cheekbones, straight, smooth hair that she wore parted in the middle or in pigtails; melancholy blue-grey eyes, set off by eyeliner; a cigarette-cured voice; and an adorable Italian accent. During the Vietnam War, she was sometimes photographed in fatigues and a helmet; her rucksack bore handwritten instructions to return her body to the Italian Ambassador “if K.I.A.” In these images she looked slight and vulnerable as a child. Her essential toughness never stopped taking people — men, especially — by surprise.
Fallaci’s journalism was infused with a “mythic sense of political evil”, an almost adolescent aversion to power, which suited the temperament of the times. “Whether”, she would say, “it comes from a despotic sovereign or an elected president, from a murderous general or a beloved leader, I see power as an inhuman and hateful phenomenon… I have always looked on disobedience towards the oppressive as the only way to use the miracle of having been born.” In her interview with Kissinger, she told him that he had become known as “Nixon’s mental wet nurse,” and lured him into boasting that Americans admired him because he “always acted alone” — like “the cowboy who leads the wagon train by riding ahead alone on his horse, the cowboy who rides all alone into the town.” Political cartoonists mercilessly lampooned this remark, and, according to Kissinger’s memoirs, the quote soured his relations with Nixon (Kissinger claimed that she had taken his words out of context). But the most remarkable moment in the interview came when Fallaci bluntly asked him, about Vietnam, “Don’t you find, Dr. Kissinger, that it’s been a useless war?”, and he began his reply with the words, “On this, I can agree.”
Although fascinated by power, Fallaci was more lenient with democratically elected politicians.
Provas
world’s most powerful figures: Yasser Arafat, Golda Meir, Indira Ghandi, Haile Selassie, Deng Xiaoping. Henry Kissinger, who later wrote that his 1972 interview with her was “the single most disastrous conversation I have ever had with any member of the press,” said that he had been flattered into granting it by the company he’d be keeping as part of Fallaci’s “journalistic pantheon.” It was more like a collection of pelts: Fallaci never left her subjects unskinned.
Her manner of interviewing was deliberately unsettling: she approached each encounter with studied aggressiveness, made frequent nods to European existentialism (she often disarmed her subjects with bald questions about death, God, and pity), and displayed a sinuous, crafty intelligence. It didn’t hurt that she was petite and beautiful, with perfect cheekbones, straight, smooth hair that she wore parted in the middle or in pigtails; melancholy blue-grey eyes, set off by eyeliner; a cigarette-cured voice; and an adorable Italian accent. During the Vietnam War, she was sometimes photographed in fatigues and a helmet; her rucksack bore handwritten instructions to return her body to the Italian Ambassador “if K.I.A.” In these images she looked slight and vulnerable as a child. Her essential toughness never stopped taking people — men, especially — by surprise.
Fallaci’s journalism was infused with a “mythic sense of political evil”, an almost adolescent aversion to power, which suited the temperament of the times. “Whether”, she would say, “it comes from a despotic sovereign or an elected president, from a murderous general or a beloved leader, I see power as an inhuman and hateful phenomenon… I have always looked on disobedience towards the oppressive as the only way to use the miracle of having been born.” In her interview with Kissinger, she told him that he had become known as “Nixon’s mental wet nurse,” and lured him into boasting that Americans admired him because he “always acted alone” — like “the cowboy who leads the wagon train by riding ahead alone on his horse, the cowboy who rides all alone into the town.” Political cartoonists mercilessly lampooned this remark, and, according to Kissinger’s memoirs, the quote soured his relations with Nixon (Kissinger claimed that she had taken his words out of context). But the most remarkable moment in the interview came when Fallaci bluntly asked him, about Vietnam, “Don’t you find, Dr. Kissinger, that it’s been a useless war?”, and he began his reply with the words, “On this, I can agree.”
Provas
Em algumas regiões, o movimento de 1848 assumiu, rapidamente, características nacionalistas: na Hungria, o governo provisório efetivamente declarou a independência do Império austro-húngaro, o qual só recuperou os territórios perdidos com a ajuda de tropas russas.
Provas
Textos V
As turmas povoadoras que para lá [Acre] seguiam deparavam com um estado social que ainda mais lhes engravecia a instabilidade e a fraqueza. Aguardava-as, e ainda as aguarda, a mais imperfeita organização do trabalho que ainda engenhou o egoísmo humano.
Repitamos: o sertanejo emigrante realiza, ali, uma anomalia sobre a qual nunca é demasiado insistir: é o homem que trabalha para escravizar-se. Ele efetua, à sua custa e de todo em todo desamparado, uma viagem difícil, em que os adiantamentos feitos pelos contratadores insaciáveis, inçados de parcelas fantásticas e de preços inauditos, o transformam as mais das vezes em devedor para sempre insolvente.
A sua atividade, desde o primeiro golpe de machadinha, constringe-se para logo num círculo vicioso inaturável: o debater-se exaustivo para saldar uma dívida que se avoluma, ameaçadoramente, acompanhando-lhe os esforços e as fadigas para saldá-la.
E vê-se completamente só na faina dolorosa. A exploração da seringa, neste ponto pior que a do caucho, impõe o isolamento. Há um laivo siberiano naquele trabalho. Dostoiévski sombrearia as suas páginas mais lúgubres com esta tortura: a do homem constrangido a calcar durante a vida inteira a mesma “estrada”, de que ele é o único transeunte, trilha obscurecida, estreitíssima e circulante, ao mesmo ponto de partida. Nesta empresa de Sísifo a rolar em vez de um bloco o seu próprio corpo — partindo, chegando e partindo — nas voltas constritoras de um círculo demoníaco, no seu eterno giro de encarcerado numa prisão sem muros, agravada por um ofício rudimentar que ele aprende em uma hora para exercê-lo toda a vida, automaticamente, por simples movimentos reflexos — se não o enrija uma sólida estrutura moral, vão-se-lhe, com a inteligência atrofiada, todas as esperanças, e as ilusões ingênuas, e a tonificante alacridade que o arrebataram àquele ance, à ventura, em busca da fortuna.
Euclides da Cunha, 1866-1909. Um clima caluniado (fragmento). In: Um paraíso perdido: reunião de ensaios amazônicos. Seleção e coordenação de Hildon Rocha. Petrópolis: Vozes, Brasília, INL (coleção Dimensões do Brasil, v.1), 1976, p. 131-2 (com adaptações).
Texto VI
Sobretudo naturalista e positivista, Euclides foi rejeitado pelo Modernismo. A retórica do excesso, o registro grandíloquo, o tom altíssono só poderiam ser avessos ao espírito modernista. Acrescente-se a isso sua preocupação com o uso de uma língua portuguesa castiça e até arcaizante, ao tempo em que Mário de Andrade ameaçava todo mundo com seu projeto de escrever uma Gramatiquinha da fala brasileira.
No entanto, mal sabiam os modernistas que, em Euclides, contavam com um abridor de caminhos. As numerosas emendas a que submeteu as sucessivas edições de Os Sertões, enquanto viveu, apontam para um progressivo abrasileiramento do discurso. No longo processo de emendar seu próprio texto, a prosódia ia, aos poucos, sobrepujando a ortoepia, esta, sim, portuguesa, mostrando que o ouvido do autor ia desautorizando sua sintaxe e, principalmente, sua colocação de pronomes anterior.
Ainda mais, o Modernismo daria continuidade a algumas das preocupações de Euclides com os interiores do país e com a repulsa à macaqueação europeia nos focos populacionais litorâneos. Partilharia igualmente com ele a reflexão sobre a especificidade das condições históricas do país, na medida em que, já em Os Sertões, Euclides realizara um mapeamento de temas que se tornariam centrais na produção intelectual e artística do século XX, ao analisar o negro, o índio, os pobres, os sertanejos, a condição colonizada, a religiosidade popular, as insurreições, o subdesenvolvimento e a dependência. Aí fincaram suas raízes não só o Modernismo, mas também o romance regionalista de 1930 e o nascimento das ciências sociais no país na década de 40 do século passado. Muitas dessas preocupações não ram, evidentemente, exclusivas de Euclides, mas comuns às elites ilustradas nas quais ele se integrava e das quais se destacou ao escrever Os Sertões.
Walnice Nogueira Galvão. Polifonia e paixão (fragmento). In: Euclidiana: ensaios sobre Euclides da Cunha. São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 2009, p. 28-9 (com adaptações).
Com relação aos textos V e VI, julgue C ou E.
No texto V, a adjetivação recorrente e o recurso a referências eruditas na descrição do trabalho do sertanejo no seringal são exemplos de características do estilo euclidiano que, no entender da autora do texto VI, são avessas “ao espírito modernista”.
Provas
A reforma monetária promovida por Rui Barbosa resultou em intenso processo de especulação financeira, obrigando o governo de Deodoro da Fonseca a adotar um conjunto de medidas conhecido como encilhamento.
Provas
“For heaven’s sake,” 1 my father said, seeing me off at the airport, “don’t get drunk, don’t get pregnant — and don’t get involved in politics.” He was right to be concerned. Rhodes University in the late 1970s, with its Sir Herbert Baker-designed campus and lush green lawns, looked prosperous and sedate. But the Sunday newspapers had been full of the escapades of its notorious drinking clubs and loose morals; the Eastern Cape was, after the riots of 1976, a place of turmoil and desperate poverty; and the campus was thought by most conservative parents to be a hotbed of political activity.
The Nationalist policy of forced removals meant thousands of black people had been moved from the cities into the nearby black “homelands” of Transkei and Ciskei, and dumped there with only a standpipe and a couple of huts for company; two out of three children died of malnutrition before the age of three. I arrived in 1977, the year after the Soweto riots, to study journalism. Months later, Steve Biko was murdered in custody. The campus tipped over into turmoil. There were demonstrations and hunger strikes.
For most of us, Rhodes was a revelation. We had been brought up to respect authority. Here, we could forge a whole new identity, personally and politically. Out of that class of 1979 came two women whose identities merge with the painful birth of the new South Africa: two journalism students whose journey was to take them through defiance, imprisonment and torture during the apartheid years.
One of the quietest girls in the class, Marion Sparg, joined the ANC’s military wing, Umkhonto we Sizwe (MK), and was eventually convicted of bombing two police stations. An Asian journalist, Zubeida Jaffer, was imprisoned and tortured, yet ultimately chose not to prosecute her torturers.
Today you can trace the footprints of my classmates across the opposition press in South Africa and the liberal press in the UK — The Guardian, the Observer and the Financial Times. Even the Spectator (that’s me). Because journalism was not a course offered at “black” universities, we had a scattering of black students. It was the first time many of us would ever have met anyone who was black and not a servant. I went to hear Pik Botha, the foreign minister, a Hitlerian figure with a narrow moustache, an imposing bulk and a posse of security men. His reception was suitably stormy, even mocking — students flapping their arms and saying, “Pik-pik-pik-P-I-I-I-K!’, like chattering hens.
But students who asked questions had to identify themselves first. There were spies in every class. We never worked out who they were, although some of us suspected the friendly Afrikaans guy with the shark’s tooth necklace.
“scattering” can be paraphrased as an unruly mob.
Provas
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